Garands
by cloudsongs
Summary: The life and friendship of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes from the very beginning. Eventual Steve/Bucky. Warnings: some underage stuff, drug use, etc. Warnings will be updated as chapters are posted.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Mr. Evans had it out for Steven Rogers. There was no doubt about it. Ever since he'd unwisely corrected his pronunciation of hypertrichosis and James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes chose that exact moment to claim that Mr. Evans shouldn't have had a problem pronouncing a condition he obviously had. It wasn't Steve's fault. All he'd done was try to insure his classmates were getting correct information and all Bucky had wanted…well he'd just seen it as another chance to get on a teacher's nerves which would, in turn, get on Jack's nerves. It was a harmless form of revenge and Steve definitely didn't deserve the severe punishment that came with it.

Steve had actually been really excited about the project; they had to construct an exact replica of a chosen dinosaur's anatomy using credited research. He had been so excited he'd volunteered to be the one student to do the project on his own. However, still upset over his outburst, weeks ago he might add, Mr. Evans had other plans.

"And Mr. Barnes, since you've found it necessary to become Mr. Rogers's backbone, you can be his partner for this assignment." He turned around knowing full and well that the angry groan he heard came from the seat closest to the front of the room.

And if his mother hadn't scolded him before for combative behavior, Steve would've thrown a tantrum. He would've stood up and demanded a reassignment and, had he known those words he'd heard the older kids spew, he would've cursed the man in the tacky, bland suit at the front of the room enjoying his discomfort.

But instead, Steve rolled his eyes, cursed his luck and refused to look at the back of the room. Bucky shrugged his shoulders and continued drawing a rather rude picture of Mr. Evans kissing Principal Connors' ass. He didn't care who his partner was; it wasn't like he'd have to anything. Every time someone got paired up with him, they assumed he would be a liability or a mooch. They figured it'd be less of a hassle to just sign his name than piss him off.

Despite this fact, Steve Rogers stopped at Bucky's desk when class ended and dropped a folded piece of notebook paper on top of his artwork with a heartfelt sigh. Knowing it would make him sweat, Bucky didn't open it until Steve left the room. In the little note, in painstakingly neat handwriting was Steve's home address and phone number.

Bucky lifted his head in confusion, scanning the empty room for some sign this was a joke. But he'd watched that Rogers kid and he wouldn't know a prank unless someone provided a Webster definition and drew a damn diagram. He packed his thin bag and left the room, a little ashamed to have written off the one person that hadn't done the same to him.

After a week of no contact with Rogers, Bucky was sitting at home, eating cornflakes and watching cartoons from the neighbor's television set across the street when Jack and his ma started shouting. He sighed and kicked at the pillow in vain, succeeding only in knocking it off the sofa and onto the floor. He'd just mustered enough annoyance to get off the couch and retrieve it when his mother shuffled in and eyed him curiously.

"Honey, don't you have something you could be doing? Homework, maybe?' she asked, obviously a little frazzled. This was the part he hated most about when his parents fought. They treated him like he was some stupid kid, like he somehow hadn't see, or heard them fighting not five feet away from him. Jack expected him to be a copper but he also expected him to ignore the obvious.

And he loved his mom, sometimes he thought more than Jack. It hurt to lie. "Uh…yeah. I'm supposed to be doing a dinosaur project with some kid a few blocks away in Steel Apartments."

His mother smiled sadly at him and grabbed her large, ugly, brown purse and her Sunday hat. "That's right around the corner, I'll walk you." It really wasn't; Bucky was sure it would _at least_ be a two mile walk from here. Then she practically threw them both out of the apartment building and into the noisy, crowded streets.

They walked side-by-side and Bucky guessed his mother believed ignorance made him an invalid because she tucked his shirt in for him and licked his hair back like a toddler. As she walked, she talked: about anything really. She talked about Jack's job at the factory, about her work as a launderer, about his Aunt Marianne and her breast cancer, about his chores, his homework, and his future. When he finally reached the Steel Apartments, his mind was reeling. She kissed his forehead and took his hand. "I love you, James." She smiled but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

He ran up the stairs and knocked on Rogers' door and by the time Mrs. Rogers answered the door and his mother was down the street, he realized with jarring clarity what she'd told him. She would be staying at Aunt Marianne's for a while. She was telling him she'd be leaving for a while but deep down, in the pit of his heart, it felt like she wasn't coming back.

Mrs. Rogers seemed like a kind enough woman, but Bucky wasn't in the mood for kind. For once, he found himself speechless. But he wasn't a baby; he was a man now. He was twelve for Christ's sake; he wasn't going to run to a corner and cry. Especially not in front of Rogers' mom, and especially not in front of Rogers.

"So, you're James Barnes? Are you by any chance related to the Mrs. Barnes that does the laundry? She's does such a swell job; our clothes are always soft and clean when we take it to her. She's such a lovely woman; we've been out to lunch a few times when you boys were younger." He awkwardly looked around the foyer, right next to the small space for dining, never having great experiences with adults. His eyes landed on a picture of a thin man wearing a soldier's uniform standing next to a beautiful woman with blonde, curly hair and a pregnant belly. The woman's face had a relaxed smile while the man looked as if he was going to cry. "That's my late husband. He was ever quite the prude," she laughed. She gently maneuvered Bucky into the kitchen where he was hit with the mouthwatering smell of fresh brownies. He must've been staring at the godsends on the table because she chucked and fetched a plate from a cabinet and placed it next to the pan. "Take two. They're Steven's 'Cheer-Up Brownies'. He's been in such a mood lately, I've been getting carpal tunnel and losing our whole stock of chocolate with all the baking I've had to do."

Bucky grinned and took a large bit out of one perfectly proportioned dessert, relishing in the dark chocolate goodness. He wasn't particularly fond of dark chocolate but it had been so long since he'd had a bite of anything so sweet that he overlooked the whole thing. "These are delicious," he mumbled, remembering what his mother said about speaking with his mouth full.

Mrs. Rogers returned his smile and didn't mention his bad manners. She went to the short hallway and called for Steve. "Sweetheart, your science partner's here and you've been in there for the past three days! The fresh air will do you good." When she returned, Bucky was on his second and contemplating whether or not he could get away with a third. She frowned a little as the self-conscious look on his face and shook her head. "Go for it, take as many as you like. Steven's been eating too much of it anyway. Wouldn't be good for his health."

Bucky reached for another brownie after another moment of hesitation. It wasn't like he'd never had freshly baked brownies before, it'd just been a while. It wasn't like he deliberately asked his mother to bake brownies for him, just that he _knew_ they didn't have the money to always make them. Apparently, it had been longer than he realized because he'd polished off five more before Steve came down the hall with green paint plastered to his pale forehead and cheek. Given everything his mother slip, Bucky could've easily come up with something vicious to say to Steve to embarrass him, make him cry; he'd certainly been given the ammunition. But he didn't want to go home right now. Not when he had brownies and calm conversation he didn't necessarily have to respond to.

"So…" Steve said, shifting his small weight from foot to foot, a critical look on his face. Bucky found himself wondering whether the kid ever smiled, outside of getting a teacher's praise. "Are we going to work on _our_ project, or what?"

"Steven," his mother admonished. "Change your tone."

Light brows furrowed, Steve tried again. "Are you ready to work?"

Mrs. Rogers stepped forward and examined his face, tilting it erratically from the left to the right, upward and downward. "Go wash your face first then you can work." She marched him in the direction he'd come from before returning.

Mrs. Rogers smiled at him again, wiping her hands on her apron, wedding band reflecting in the kitchen light. Opening the fridge, she began to pour him a glass of cold milk, his favorite, but Jack didn't even know that. She placed it next to him on the table and fetched a brownie for herself. "So, Bucky, I hear you're quite the trouble maker. You seem alright to me." She winked at him, taking a bite.

And with that, Bucky decided he liked it here.

Steve wasn't pleased with the way the paint on his dinosaur looked too much like plastic and not scales. He had spent so long mixing colors to see if he could find the perfect shade of green but to no avail. And he certainly wasn't pleased with the way Bucky Barnes came strolling into his room with chocolate covered fingers, dirt-tracking sneakers, and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He'd been working furiously on this project for the last four days, alone he might add, and Bucky hadn't done anything to help. Granted, he should've expected it; he'd heard from everyone else Bucky had been partnered with that he preferred to be a silent bystander. Yet he was still one of the most popular kids in school. What injustice.

But then again, Bucky had never come to their houses. Before he could feel accomplished in this feat, he reasoned Bucky had probably just been bored at home doing whatever kids like him did by themselves. Like smoking or sneaking into clubs and all those other things his mother would bust his chops for.

So he put Bucky to work. Put him in charge of mixing the material for the paper mache while he cut strips of old newspapers he collected from all the elderly neighbors. They worked in silence (mostly), Steve focused on his project and Bucky grateful for a task to keep his mind off his mother's departure. The only interruption they ever got were the sudden hacking coughs emitting from Steve's small body that he'd desperately try to cover up with a red face. Bucky didn't comment but he felt on edge and had the burning desire to keep the door open so he could yell for Mrs. Rogers in case Steve threw up his lungs. Before they'd realized, three hours had passed and Mrs. Rogers was calling Bucky and asking if he planned on staying for dinner or if his parents were expecting him. Knowing Jack, he probably hadn't realized Bucky had left. That or he thought he was out with his mother who'd bring him back for dinner, that the three of them would sit down to until Jack would inevitably be called by one of his friends to go to the bar.

But Bucky didn't mention any of this, choosing instead to lie. "Yeah, my Pa's expecting me." He turned to face Steve, his eyes on his shoes. "I'll see you later –"

"Tomorrow, you mean?" Steve asked just defiant enough that his mother wouldn't scold.

He looked up and their eyes met for the first time that Bucky could remember, curiosity present in his gaze. Steve's eyes were a lot like his mother's. They reflected kindness and honestly and, not that he'd ever tell him, a gentle soul. But, the most astonishing of all, they looked expectant and challenging. He felt as if, for once, someone expected him to finish something he started; not because he was supposed to or because his parents were making him…but because this kid, the overly tense, incredibly tiny Steve Rogers, needed his help and was depending on him for assistance. And whether he liked it or not, he was not getting out of this partnership.

The sheer challenge made Bucky question whether he even wanted to try.

And what the hell, he'd been less alone in Steve's silence than the cacophony of sound at his house. "Yeah, Rogers. I'll be here tomorrow," he started towards the door before throwing over his shoulder, "for the brownies."

A/N: Thank you for reading. Reviews are greatly appreciated. If there are any questions, I will address them in an Author's Note in the next chapter if I do not directly reply to you.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks of working together with Bucky Barnes and Steve was ready to strangle him. He'd begun planning the crime and just what he would say on the court stand. He'd assure the jury it wasn't just _one_ of Bucky's annoying little traits, it was all of them. Sure, they'd begun their partnership in a somewhat efficient silence. Steve would assign their tasks; Bucky would nod and roll his eyes before setting to work. They'd worked this way for a few days and Steve had begun wondering if his classmates had been completely wrong about Bucky.

Bucky hadn't outwardly complained about having to work, he hadn't slacked off at all, he even chose to work when Steve had taken breaks to eat, do chores, and secretly take his cough suppressants. He arrived at his house when he said he would, sometimes even an hour early. Silvia Salander, one of the only girls at school that occasionally talked to him, tried to credit Bucky's parents for his promptness but Steve shut her down, having noticed since that first day, Bucky always walked to his house with the same pair of shoes and a thin, holey jacket despite the chilly Brooklyn weather. Even on the day it poured buckets and his mother worried aloud that 'that Barnes boy' would catch pneumonia in 'this hurricane rain'.

But that period had been too good to be true. Eventually, Bucky made it clear his docile, compliant, even pleasant behavior was all an act. A temporary state before he unleashed his true annoying tendencies that Steve swore came straight from Satan himself to ruin any chance he had at finishing his three-week sentence with any semblance of sanity.

It wasn't that Bucky was constantly around to show him up in praising his mother's good cooking, or the way he managed to get tasks that took Steve two hours done in less than twenty minutes, or the way he knew how to create artistically impressive decals for the dinosaur's features that blew Steve's mind with viciously jaded spikes of envy. It wasn't the way he babbled incessantly about the latest films he'd snuck into in the drive-in theatres or the way he sung songs off-key under his breath and Steve's skin. It wasn't even the immense irritation Steve felt after Bucky decided calling him 'Rogers' was getting tedious and decided to call him 'Stevie'.

If Steve had to guess what the most annoying part of being Bucky Barnes' partner was, he'd guess it was the fact that he was starting to get used to it.

After the rain that day, his mother had begun to insist Steve brought Bucky home with him after school. He'd refused furiously and adamantly until his mother attacked his one weakness, claiming that she'd take away his sketchbooks and drawing pencils till he was willing to be kinder. After that, he begrudgingly approached Bucky and withstood the confused glares his friends gave him. He'd taken a huge gulp of air and pawned the blame on his mother and Bucky's lost puppy features. "My mother thinks you should walk home with me," he began, shifting from foot to foot and waiting for Bucky to look up from his sandwich. The laughter from Bucky's friends burned his cheeks. "So, I'll wait for you on the front steps after school." When Bucky didn't respond, he rolled his eyes and regretted ever agreeing to ask. It was a few moments before Bucky looked up, a strange look on his face. "Okay?"

Bucky had nodded and his eyes lowered to a hole in his chino pants. "Yeah. Okay. I'll have to ask Jack." He started to ask Steve why but he was already halfway back to his usual table by himself.

That day, at the risk of appearing too eager, Bucky forced himself to walk the straight edges of the tiled floor to the front door, taking an extra twenty minutes after school. It had the unfortunate side effect of pissing Steve off but succeeded in maintaining his role as an unwilling participant in Steve's grade. And when they'd finally reached the semi-neat, four-story apartment building four blocks from the school, Bucky was willing to bet Steve was already over it because he didn't even scowl when Bucky got the first cookie of the batch. He did laugh when Bucky burned his tongue, but so did Bucky.

At the two-week mark, Bucky had been increasingly annoying. Steve figured something must've changed because Steve babbled even more than usual. They'd developed a routine of eating Mrs. Rogers' delicious snacks, hurrying upstairs to work on their project; Bucky had named it The Rogersaurus after 'Steve's evil alter ego', where they would stay for four hours and Steve would consider dropping out before he lost his mind. Now, Bucky had taken to sitting on the small kitchen stool and helping Mrs. Rogers with whatever she happened to be making. Steve didn't want to admit to eavesdropping but he knew he worked twice as fast with Bucky's infuriating assistance without it, so he'd sit by the edge of the hallway and listen to their conversations.

Sometimes, Bucky would ask how Mrs. Rogers was doing, where Mr. Rogers was since he'd never seen him till now, and Mrs. Rogers would sadly admit that Mr. Rogers hasn't been around for a long time. Bucky would not ask again. Steve later tells him that his pa was brave and fought in the World War but died before Steve was born. But mostly, he would talk about his ma and something she'd done this week, or years ago. Steve's mother always sounded pleased and welcomed Bucky's company, encouraging him to go on when he spoke about his mother, teaching him baking tips and distracting him with tasks when his voice got smaller. Afterwards, she'd thank him for his help to an extent that made Steve feel guilty and a bit jealous. She was _his_ ma and Bucky was showing him up, again.

Once, Steve had felt so bothered, he asked his mother why Bucky couldn't just go home and speak to his own mother. To his surprise, she eyed with reproach before explaining, "Steve, have you considered the possibility that he can't?"

That confused him and sent a strange daunting feeling through the pit of his stomach. After all, he'd always been able to tell his ma everything. Even the stuff about people picking on him for stature or calling him queer for drawing all the time. "What do you mean, he can't?"

At this, the frown on his mother's face was replaced with a soft smile as she pulled him into a hug complicated by the inches he'd never grown. "Sweet-child, not everyone's ma is like yours. Keep that in mind." She pushed him towards their dining table to set it for dinner. "And quit bustin' his chops," she said, surprising Steve with her modern words, "Be glad I've got someone to cook with, that's more time you have to yourself."

That night, after dinner and their evening prayers, his mother told Steve to invite Bucky and his family to dinner the next night and he didn't even question it.

Bucky failed to mention the dinner invitation to Jack until he was sure he had some poker game or a drinking invitation lined up and wouldn't be able to make it. He knew his intentions were obvious but his father didn't look the least bit upset. If anything, he looked regretful. Like he'd noticed the amount of time Bucky was spending with the Rogers rather than at home, in their small, empty apartment, he didn't mention it. His mother had been back for a few days earlier in the week with angry customers asking for their clothes back. She wanted it to seem like she'd spent the night but after she'd left and Jack spent nights awake drinking himself to a stupor, Bucky had taken to sleeping less at night and more at school. He'd been wide-awake on his couch in the front room when she'd sneaked out of the house, her dinner clothes evident in the streetlights.

He wished he could feel hurt or even angry that they were lying to him, but he was too excited she'd been home period to feel anything other than that joy of feeling accomplished. Like he finally had something Steve had; he could have some part of normal and he could prove it. After spending so much time with Stevie's –he had to remember to keep calling him that as the glare on Rogers' face had become a delight n his day –family and seeing what he could have. What he was supposed to have. And he couldn't keep stealing Steve's ma from him, even if Steve didn't seem to appreciate what he had.

He walked home with Steve that afternoon in his least holey pair of pants and a collared shirt, missing several buttons nonetheless, but still a nice shirt. Steve was quieter than usual, his step a few strides behind Bucky's and Bucky felt a small sliver of embarrassment. Maybe the dinner had just been Steve's ma's idea and he wasn't wanted. He'd thought maybe Steve and he had been on the track to becoming friends, despite all the jokes jabbed at Steve…or at least acquaintances, or maybe people that could stand being in a room for longer than an hour without throwing fruits at each others' heads. Sure he acknowledged that he was a handful, not the easiest person to get to know. He had farfetched, and far-flung ideas that got him, and often-unwilling participants, in trouble along with him when he put them in action. But he hadn't even been around Steve long enough to get him into trouble. He hadn't tainted him yet. Mrs. Rogers could testify to that. And if his mother were still around (_she's coming back_, he reminded himself), she'd testify to it too. And it wasn't like Steve didn't already get himself into enough trouble. Just the other day, some of Bucky's friends were poking fun at Chubby Susie while she wailed out loud in school yard and Steve barreled down the path and butted straight into Johnny Wilkins and flailed his arms around to hit as many boys as he possibly could for making Susie cry. In the end, Bucky ended up dragging Steve home, not bothered in the slightest of the blood that touched his collar when Steve staggered into him when they reached the halfway mark.

Deciding to just get it over with, Bucky walked a few steps too close to the boy lost in his thoughts, playfully knocking into him. "What's going on, Stevie? Worried about the Rogersaurus being on his own for too long? We've raised him well and I'm sure he won't fall into a bad crowd and start smoking."

He was shocked when that got a small smile out of the usually tense kid. "No, I'm sure he's fine. I'm still not sure why he's a he." He tilted his head and bit the inside of his cheek before giving way to his curiosity. "I kinda wanted to ask you something."

Bucky grinned and bumped Steve to the side with his hip again. Steve stumbled a little. "Yes, Steve, I am an alien, and yes, I have come to earth to crawl inside of you and assume your role as a boring, straight-A student with no social life. I've been observing for quite some time and now I think I'll be good enough that no one will suspect a thing."

That one earned an actual, nervous, laugh; Steve's eyes bright and yet, still uneasily curious. "I knew it. Wait 'til I tell everyone I was right."

Bucky nodded thoughtfully, knowing Steve was trying to find a polite time to ask what must be either an uncomfortable or unpleasant request of him. Maybe he was going to use this dinner as a nice way of saying, "Hey, Bucky, it's been great but once this project is over, I'll be glad to never see you again" or "Is it okay to pretend you don't exist after next Thursday?" Either way, Steve was trying to be kind about it and of course he was; he was a Rogers. They were so painfully kind even in the face of someone like Bucky Barnes, son of Jack Barnes who sometimes ignored tact in favor of faster results.

"What's eatin' ya, Steve?" Bucky crossed his arms and lowered his gaze.

It was a moment before he replied and they'd reached the Steel Apartments and its pebbly walkway when, instead of entering the front door, Steve chose to instead plop down on the front step. Bucky's heart raced for a moment, thinking Steve had over exhausted himself on the walk back home. The idea itself was dumb since they walked from school everyday but he knew how weak Steve was. When Steve did nothing more than a weak cough, Bucky sighed. Steve glanced up with a nervous quirk of an eyebrow when Buck stood before him, leaning against the railing. "Why don't you ever talk to me about stuff?"

Which threw Bucky for a pleasantly unexpected loop. "What?"

Steve squinted up at him, and clarified. "You spend a lot of time talking to my mom, like an hour a day but when we go to my room, you never talk about anything."

"I talk a lot," he objected, shrugging.

Steve grinned. "Yeah, you do. But it's never about anything. I asked my ma once and she said it's because you don't have people to talk to." At that, Bucky looked stricken and embarrassed so Steve hurriedly went on. "And so I thought, you could talk to me, but you never do. Well, I mean you do, but it's never about anything."

Bucky was silent, for once, his head lowered and with a barely stifled growl he started off towards the end of the street without a word.

Bucky didn't come over the next few days. When Steve stood outside the first day, he waited forty-five minutes before Silvia Salander told him Bucky had skipped the last period and walked home. He waited the next day for thirty before one of Bucky's nicer friends told him Bucky had told him to tell "Rogersaurus" he wasn't feeling well. He didn't wait at all the next day. He'd later rationalize that he was just angry at Bucky for abandoning their project, but they'd been pretty much finished anyway. And at that point, Bucky had earned his name on the project even more than Steve had, in bigger letters if he was honest.

If he was truly being honest, he was angry with himself. What had he been thinking? Asking Bucky to talk to him, and about his feelings nonetheless? Bucky didn't need a shoulder to cry deeply into, and even if he did, what made Steve think he'd want it to be his shoulder? But even that thought irritated him; Bucky was willing to spend hours talking to Steve's mother, _his_ mother about actual things and then reserved everything _stupid_ and _trivial_, as Mr. Evans said, for Steve.

And maybe that was what really irked him. Listening in on the conversations Bucky had in his kitchen while his mother cooked delicious dinners, Steve knew Bucky had a lot to say. He spoke about the way he hated his father being drunk and gone all the time, but the revere in his tone belied the respect Bucky had for his father's previous work as a policeman. The way he admired Mrs. Rogers' culinary wizardry belied his nostalgia for his own mother's cooking. The way Bucky's voice would become wistful and small when he spoke about his mother at all, belied that she hadn't been around lately.

Steve was jealous and the realization hit him like a train. He was jealous of his mother. After all, Steve could spend three, sometimes four more hours alone with Bucky a day than her but she got to know Bucky better than he ever would. How pathetic did that make him?

Apparently pathetic enough to lie to Mrs. Collingsworth about having trouble breathing days later and skip the rest of his last class. He'd heard from a reliable source, Mrs. Jensen in the front office, Bucky had physical education as his last class. He stealthily roamed the empty halls until he heard the familiar squeak of Bucky's rubber shoes on the tiled floors.. He pressed his body as hard as possible into the wall as Bucky rounded the corner. He waited until Bucky was sufficiently far enough down the hall to follow him as quietly as possible. And as he left the school grounds, before the bell, his conscience kept pointing out; he realized he'd never found out where Bucky lived. He assumed it wasn't far because he'd walked to and from his house with no trouble.

Steve had just been contemplating how stupid his plan had been with his lungs already burning when, fifteen minutes into it, Bucky rounded a street corner and promptly disappeared. He spun around abruptly and searched the noisy street for any sign of the mop of unruly dark hair or tattered backpack when a sharp weight shoved him roughly into a grimy alleyway. Mud stains were the last of his problems as Bucky angrily glared down at him.

"Hey, Bucky. How's it goin'?" he tired weakly through the lack of oxygen. He panted and thought about breathing normally.

Bucky's brow furrowed and he reluctantly rolled off of the boy struggling for air. If there was anything Jack had thought him, it was how to tell when someone was following him. Still, it had just been Stevie –Steve. He was harmless and looking at him now, slowly getting to his feet, he felt a little bad for overreacting. And he was a little surprised at the weightless feeling the pit of his stomach stubbornly pulling a grin from the corners of his mouth.

"Stop following me." Starting down the sidewalk, he wasn't the least surprised to hear the sound of Stevie's –_Steve's_ loafers in step with his rubber boots. He let it go on until he was five minutes from his apartment building, spotting the usual crowd of ugliness surrounding the whole property. "Go home, your ma's probably worried, Stevie." It slipped out but it felt like it belonged in his mouth.

Normally a mention of his ma's shaky nerves was enough to send Steve on his way but this time, he stood his ground and he looked a bit ridiculous in mud stained pants and a filthy collar. "No. I won't be ignored."

They stood a few feet apart, arms crossed and eyes locked in a test of wills until a minute twitch of Steve's brow and a tiny quirk in Bucky's lip led to a breakdown in unrestrained laughter. Bucky threw his head back and let out a bark so loud a woman walking past them with her purse clutched to her chest stopped to stare, making Steve's chuckles morph into "manly chuckles" as he would later call them, that sounded an awful lot like giggles. When they finally regained control and Steve had gotten over his unnatural fear of germs and insects found on the ground, they sat together in front of Bucky's ugly apartment.

They were quiet for a while before Bucky spoke. "I'm real sorry I left that day. Was your ma mad?"

Steve shook his head and scratched at the stubborn stain on his knee. "No, not at you anyway." He leaned his weight into Bucky's shoulder, barely nudging the older boy. "I suspect your alien powers have made her like you more than me."

Bucky grinned and peaked at Steve from underneath his eyelashes. "Yes! My plan is working." He waited a moment before pulling his knees up to his chest and dropping his chin on top of them. "Why would you follow me anyway?"

And Steve wanted to say that he missed Bucky, that he was angry at himself for being such a needy crybaby, that he felt like Bucky was the first real friend he'd had and he wasn't even sure that Bucky had been aware. Instead, he tried for a laugh. "It's too much work without you. The Rogersaurus needs two parents."

Bucky lowered his eyes to his feet, his lashes fluttering for a moment before he nodded somberly, sniffing quietly. And Steve bit his lip at the sudden sight of tears trailing down Bucky's face. It was strange, but other than children, Steve had never seen anyone cry; let alone Bucky, the strongest person he knew next to his mother. He seemed so small, so unlike the boy that had tackled him to the ground moments ago.

Bucky wiped angrily at his face before staring up to study the walls of the building. "Yeah, okay." He shook his head and wiped at his face again in determination before standing up, growing taller as he did, indestructible. "If the Rogersaurus needs two parents, he's got 'em." He extended a hand to Steve and pulled him up. "Is that dinner invitation still open?"

Steve knew better than to say so without consulting his mother but he figured she made enough for them to share with a third person anyway, and if he had to, he'd just eat less. "Of course, you have to meet the in-laws." Some part of his brain told him that statement sounded strange but he ignored it.

And as they walked to Rogers' apartment, he reasoned he could let Bucky call him the dame of their "parenthood", steal all of his mother's time, and call him Stevie all he wanted if it meant never having to see tears of Bucky's face again.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve's first kiss wasn't at all what he thought it would be. He was never the experimental one, sticking to his scraps of paper and drawing pencils; "the nerd" Bucky always said in affectionate, teasing tones. Bucky on the other hand, tried anything new and exciting. He was the one who taught Steve to fling marbles using rubber bands, subsequently giving himself his first eye patch (if only he could say it was his first black eye), his first time being punished, and many other firsts too painful to think about, he'd stopped letting Bucky's brand of fun entice him.

So when he spent the night at the Barnes house for the fifteenth time in the billion times Bucky had stayed over at his house, Steve was thrown for a loop when Bucky suggested it. "You want to do what?"

"I want to kiss you," he mumbled again, taking a drink of Coke, having decided to boycott drinking water for a while.

Steve was sure he was joking. He had to be. Why would he want to kiss Steve of all people? Bucky was popular and well-known and loads of dames had crushes on him. Why didn't he want to kiss one of them? "Why?"

Bucky met his eyes with slight self-consciousness. "I never have before."

"Exactly, why start now?" And Steve wasn't sure why he sounded terrified but he could feel his heart pounding in his chest and he had a pretty clear idea why. He could blame it on nerves but if the way his palm got sweaty every time Bucky smiled at him with that mischievous look in his eyes, he was nervous for a different reason entirely. "I know three people that would definitely kiss you." Well four if he was honest but he was allowed to lie once in a blue moon.

"Can't we just do it?" Bucky snapped, sitting up in front of the sofa where they had laid their sheets (more blankets on Steve's side to keep him warm through the night) to sleep the night before. "Think of it as an experiment."

"To what purpose? What's the problem, the hypothesis?" he asked, getting to his knees, close enough to smell the sweet scent of Bucky's breath. "And people are going to think we're a coupla fruits."

Bucky had to think about it before coming up with, "Well I've never kissed you before, that's the problem. I think that it would –_will_ be different from my ma's kisses." Not that he remembered' she hadn't really kissed him since he was about five. "Also, no one's gonna know, Stevie. It's just between us. And it's not like we've got girls here now to test our hypothesis on."

It wasn't that logical, but then again Bucky's ideas rarely were. Steve would later blame adrenaline for propelling forward hands on Bucky's broader shoulders and planting a dry, chaste kiss to Bucky's cheek. He knew that wasn't the way boys and girls kissed when they were on dates. But it was enough to make his stomach do somersaults that left him feeling oddly energized and a little sick.

Bucky pulled back, cheeks flushed and a small frown on his face. "That wasn't a real kiss." And Steve lowered his head in embarrassment because he'd never kissed anyone other than his mother.

"How would you know?" he shot back defensively.

"I just do," Bucky replied, pulling himself taller on his knees. Reaching timidly out for Steve's face, his fingers tickled the skin behind his ears. Mimicking him, Steve did the same, eyes scanning Bucky's face, unsure of the contemplative look on his face that would years later identify as longing. Close enough to ghost his lips with his whisper, he explained. "This is a real kiss."

Barely there at first, he pressed his parted mouth against Steve's closed lips. Bucky paused, not daring to make a move until Steve let his mouth fall open. Hands moist and dragging along the white cotton of Steve's shirt, Bucky pulled himself higher still, deepening the kids with leverage. Turning his head the way they did in the movies, he tried it from different angles finding the perfect one to earn a muffled gasp from Steve. The first slide of Bucky's tongue was odd, Steve thought. Not unpleasant, just different and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to fell. Coke tasted like an entirely new flavor, sickly sweet and just a bit dizzying. It left Steve wondering how many flavors tasted differently on Bucky's sly tongue, if he'd ever get to find out.

They separated for air (Steve mostly as he clutched his chest, trying to calm his heart rate enough to think and breathe), panting slightly, eyes on the floor until Bucky risked a glance. Ignoring the pleased tug in his stomach at the sigh of Steve's lips swollen and red, saying _I did that_. "Was that totally wacky?"

Shaking his head adamantly, Steve licked his lips, and Bucky's eyes widened. "No. Not really." Bucky nodded and lay down on the sheets again, head swimming when Steve followed suit. His skin tingled, hair rising in the space between them. He felt hyperaware, extremely sensitive to the fact that Steve was lying beside him, not inches away but suddenly too far. Taking in a deep breath as Steve exhaled, he tried to ignore the itching feeling but the blood was rushing through his body. He turned his head to the floor, eyeing Steve with curiosity and as usual, Steve knew exactly what he meant.

"You wanna do it again, don't you?"

"Yeah," he breathed, tongue caught in his teeth. So they did.

It would be years before Bucky tells Steve about Cherry Calypso cornering him after his second-class one day and shoving her tongue down his throat. Steve asked him why he'd wanted to do the experiment if he already had the "conclusion". Bucky was unable to come up with an excuse other than the simple fact he just wanted to.

Their routine transitioned into high school and he'd become so used to the routine, so used to the dinners with the Rogers every few days that the one day Steve wasn't waiting for him after school, he'd been utterly distraught. He sank down onto the top step for what like hours before Silvia Salander walked by and called over his shoulder, "Steve went home after third-class with a fever." To Bucky, Steve painted the picture of indestructability. Steve had never been _really _sick. Sure he caught a pretty bad cold every time the weather got chilly, but never enough to not tell Bucky about it. The worst of the worst the Bucky had seen was when Steve got an asthma attack when he was running away from some of the boys from school. The second he collapsed and rocked for breath, the whole group ran off claiming they hadn't done "nuthin" while Bucky fearfully clutched Steve to his chest until one of the teachers came outside to call for help. He never saw Steve have another again but he figured that Steve had more when he wasn't around. But maybe Steve learned a thing or two from him about faking sick and wanted to go home early.

Bucky began to walk home with a self-satisfied grin on his face before he remembered that two weeks ago he'd stayed home with the flu and in his annoyed boredom, he'd called Steve and begged him to come over after school. He played on Steve's weakness and claimed he needed to know what schoolwork he missed, knowing full and well that whatever it was, he'd be able to finish it the day it was due.

Steve had compliantly let himself in quietly and appeared at his doorway with a stack of notebooks. Seeing Bucky in his parents' bed and underneath the covers, something he never saw, even when they had impromptu sleepovers (as it was known fact that with only one bedroom in the apartment, Bucky had to sleep on the couch), Steve covered his mouth with the collar of his shirt and asked, voice laden with trepidation, "Are you sick?"

Bucky had thrown his arms out exasperatedly and replied sarcastically, "No, Steve, I've just decided today would be a good day to freshen up my skills at blowing snot out of my nose and reaching high temperatures. Of course I'm sick. Didn't you notice I wasn't at school today?"

"Of course, but I just figured you'd decided to skip." Steve threw out and took a step further back. "We 'ad ma' 'est 'oday."

"What? I can't hear you," Bucky said, a wicked smile on his face. "Steve, let go of your shirt. Breathe in the evil, sickening germs of Feverland. Come on, get sick and stay home with me tomorrow. Jack will be gone and your ma will bring us soup and warm, comfy blankets."

Steve rolled his eyes and ignored Bucky's enticements. He dropped the collar of his shirt but covered his mouth with his hand. "We had a math test today."

"So, every other answer is C. That's how Mrs. Woods operates." Bucky settled further into his pillows and crossed his arms behind his head. "Steve, come, come sit with me."

Steve glared defiantly and started to back out of the room. "And get pneumonia, I don't think so." His creaking steps were heard and Bucky closed his eyes as he noticed the silence in the house felt more overwhelming than before, just as it did when Steve left Bucky alone. But as he'd begun fully drifting away, he heard the familiar intones of Mrs. Rogers and Steve in the kitchen right next door and the smell of hot soup lulled him to sleep.

Now, two weeks later, Steve, Mr. Never-Missed-A-Day-of-School-in-His-Life was home sick because of Bucky's selfishness. Oh yeah, he was rubbing of on Steve and it'd made him sick, literally. Frowning, Bucky turned around and started towards the Rogers' apartment. He knew full and well that if he'd gotten Steve sick, Steve would most likely make his ma sick. He'd infected the family he'd become so dependent on; he was just that contagious.

When he reached the apartment on the third floor, he knocked as gently as possible on the door. Mrs. Rogers appeared at the door, appearing as well as ever, if a little annoyed. Seeing it was Bucky, her face brightened a fraction and she let him in. "Hello, Bucky. Are you here to see Steve? He's come down with the flu and a nasty attitude too." Despite her teasing attitude, he could see the worry lines on her forehead. She was genuinely concerned how the night would end and had to cancel her shift at the hospital to make sure the night went smoothly. She remembered the last time Steve had pneumonia was when he was only two years old and she had cried by his feverish body and promised herself she would never allow him to go through it again.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and cocked an eyebrow, tense, panicky, and painstakingly precise, yes, but Steve was always as polite as possible. In fact, it'd taken weeks of being around Bucky for Steve to finally start arguing over the little annoying things Bucky made him do. "Uh, yeah. I heard he went home sick and I came to check on him. You know, like he did when I was sick before."

She nodded and returned to the stove, pouring soup into a bowl on a tray with a couple of crackers and a spoon. "That's terribly sweet of you, I'm afraid he's a bit of a brat when he's sick." She started down the hall but Bucky blocked her way and gently took the tray from her hands.

"I'll take it to him. You'll get sick and plus, I've got to fill him in on what happened to Lester when he fell down the stairs this morning." He smirked brilliantly and carried the tray carefully down the hallway to Steve's room and stopped outside the door at a strange sound.

A few more moments and Bucky realized with a stuttering laugh that Steve was singing. Even with this voice thick with mucus, Steve's voice angelically carried out a random tune like a songbird. Deciding it was adorable and enough ammo for the next time Bucky was caught in an awkward predicament, he opened the door with his foot and set the tray on the end of Steve's nightstand. Steve was sweaty and bundled in a mountain of blankets so thick he was only visibly up to his neck. Picking up the thermometer, Bucky gently forced Steve's head back and coaxed the plastic stick into his mouth and under his tongue. He sat on the edge of Steve's mattress waiting for the reading and frowned at what he saw.

Steve had stopped singing, instead he was watching Bucky with a curious, disbelieving look on his face. Bucky pat him on the shoulder before helping him sit up. Steve struggled to take a few deep breaths before a coughing fit started. "Okay, Steve, let's get you up and full of soupy, chicken-filled goodness. I got you sick so I'll get you better. Maybe after you're done, I'll ask my alien pals to get me some healing stuff? Break that fever? Sound good?" When Steve didn't respond, Bucky mentally kicked himself. He was talking to Steve the way his mother had when he'd been sick as a boy.

He stayed with Steve finished most of the soup and promptly passed out, his hands clammy and heated to the touch. Bucky sighed and brought the tray down to the kitchen, along with the thermometer reflecting Steve's fever. He showed it to Mrs. Rogers, nerves increasing at the frown on her face.

"Is it worse?" he asked, watching as she retrieved the phone and dialed a well-memorized number before responding.

"A few degrees higher than this morning. Was he having trouble breathing?" she asked, before answering the other line on the phone. "Yes, my son Steve Rogers has the flu and it's getting worse." Bucky's heart started to pound a bit faster as Mrs. Rogers gave him a reassuring glance before handing him a bottle of medicine and shooing him back to Steve's room.

He entered Steve's room for the second time and instead of feeling home amongst the wall of Steve's sketches of Bucky and Mrs. Rogers and the sights around him, he felt unwelcome, like a pathogen to Steve's sanctuary. It was his fault Steve was tossing and turning, shivering and sweating in his bed. He looked frail, so helpless and it was Bucky's fault. If he hadn't been so fucking selfish…he stood there for a moment, guilt shaking the core of his bones before he forced himself forward. Mrs. Rogers had given him a task and he was going to do it.

He kneeled by Steve's bed and felt his forehead, having felt his ma do this many times before, noting how warm Steve was. Bucky's throat locked with apology at the way Steve pressed his forehead into Bucky's palm. He had to try a few times before his voice worked again. "Steve, Steve, pal, wake up for me. I have to give you medicine." Steve turned his head away from Bucky's voice and pushed at him blindly, making Bucky feel worse than he would have if Steve had actually punched him in the face. "Come on, pal. Yummy, yummy…disgusting purple goo. It'll make you feel better." He laid his palm along the stretch of Steve's neck, trying to force him to turn his head.

Steve was murmuring a steady stream of incoherencies Bucky had to strain to hear. "No, no, no, don't want it. Makes me sick."

Bucky gave a small smile. "No, doll, I made you sick. Bucky made you sick," he whispered into Steve's exposed ear.

At that, Steve opened his eyes and looked, out of focus, in Bucky's general direction. "He did. He gave me cooties." And worried sick or not, Bucky would remember this for years to come.

"Yeah," Bucky chuckled, absently stroking the side of Steve's neck. "You never got your cootie shot. Betcha' regret that now, buddy."

The sick teenager gave a small shiver and closed his eyes again, leaning into Bucky's hand. "Yeah, I do."

Bucky picked up the bottle of cough medicine and leaned forward to Steve's ear again. "But I can give your some medicine now that will help. You'll be better in no time. Kissing lots and lots of dames." He poured some of the sticky substance on the spoon and held it steadily, knowing if he dropped even a bit of it, Steve would make him lick it up.

Steve shook his head, muttering between short gasps of breath, "No, no girls. Cooties." Bucky took advantage and lowered Steve's jaw with his thumb and, as gently as possible, forced the medicine in. He ran his fingers down the column of Steve's feverish neck and he swallowed the foul tasting liquid.

"There we go." He set the spoon and medicine back on the nightstand and sat back on his heels, still running a comforting hand along Steve's neck.

They remained in silence except for the occasional gasp for air and coughing fit until Steve opened one eye and said, "Talk." He coughed, roughly and hoarse enough Bucky debated forcing more medicine down his throat because it wasn't working fast enough for his comfort. When it was over, Bucky was surprised to realize the lump in his throat had arisen from alarm. Steve clenched his eyes shut, his muscles tensing before he continued after what felt like an hour. "Talk to me."

Bucky felt utterly useless. Like he always felt when something had been asked of him and it didn't feel like enough in exchange for what he'd been given. When Mrs. Rogers asked him to help with a chore in exchange for having a mother when his own wasn't around. When Steve asked him whether his sketch looked even remotely realistic to feel what it was like to have a brother, a friend.

"Talk, about what, Steve? About anything?" That seemed to set off another coughing spell that left Steve breathless and Bucky speechless for what felt like the second time in his life. He reached his other hand up to cradle Steve's head through the worst of it, butterflies at the way Steve welcomed his touch.

"An'thin'," he clarified before settling back into the comfort of his pillows and Bucky's warm hands on the sides of his face, now. "Please."

Bucky didn't miss a beat before letting his mouth take over because for once Steve had asked him to. It was the least he could give in exchange for…giving Bucky everything he'd gotten used to living without. "My ma used to tuck me in at night, before it got like it was. She'd call me her 'Little Man' and sometimes when I had to do something important like help with the 'big kid' chores, she'd all me her 'Little Man' and it made me feel important. Jack used to take me fishing before he lost his job and before I was old enough to realize it was a whole lot of sitting in still water waiting for nothin'. I miss it sometimes but I think we've gotten past the point of being able to sit around without fighting. I never told you this, but I used to have a big brother and sister. His name was Jesse but he died in his sleep and I never knew why. My sister left right after to live with my Aunt Marrianne to go to some fancy boarding school. My parents started fighting after that. I miss my ma still. She's at home now but I still feel all alone. I'm pretty sure Bernice Matthews wanted to ask you out last year, how wacky is that? Unless you don't think it's wacky and you knew all along, you sly you…."

He spoke for hours about nothing and about everything. He told Steve secrets he'd kept locked down out of fear of giving Steve ammunition to embarrass him, or worse, leave and never come back. He talked until his voice and the calm stroking of Steve's clammy skin lulled them both to sleep.

He woke hours later in the dark of the night having crawled into bed beside Steve and on top of the covers, his forearm cramped from resting protectively over Steve's chest and his heart. He was too tired to move but awake enough to see Mrs. Rogers attempting to quietly eave the room. "Mrs. Rogers?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Shh, go back to sleep. I spoke to your father and he says it's okay for you to stay over." She crouched down next to the bed.

"Is Steve gonna die?" he whispered, voice sounding too loud in the quiet still of the room.

Mrs. Rogers shook her head and pet his hand gently. "He has the flu, like you did, and I suspect you gave it to him." At the abashed look on Bucky's face, she made light of it. "He'll be fine, Bucky. It'll take him a little longer to get better because of his asthma and heart problems, but you know he's a fighter."

She gave him one last reassuring smile before turning to leave the room. And Bucky knew what he'd been given hadn't deserved. He settled down next to Steve, snuggled by his side and snoring softly, interrupted occasionally by stuttered breaths and coughs. He fell asleep with Steve's hand in his and knew he'd find a way to earn this for real.

Steve met Ruth Raslo on a Wednesday after Mr. Deon's Maths class. It was quite cliché to say the least, in the fact that they met in the cheesiest manner possible. Bucky had bullied Steve into joining his new "shoe polish service", guaranteed to earn them tons of cash because Steve was cute and friendly and Bucky was an entrepreneur in the making. Bucky didn't mention that the Depression had caused Jack to earn even less at his factory job and they could barely afford paying the rent. Instead, he wanted to joke around just a little longer. That day, Bucky had pushed and prodded Steve to the doorway as class ended and inevitably shoved Steve into a broad chest, knocking the millions of tomes in his hands to the floor.

Steve sighed and knelt to the floor to pick them up, apologizing all the way down. "I'm so sorry," he repeated, watching, as the stranger he'd slammed into knelt down to help.

Green eyes beamed brightly at him as she smiled and helped Steve collect his books. "It's fine. Mr. Deon causes involuntary violence in the nicest of people. I'm Ruth." But Bucky already knew that.

"Steve," he supplied, ignoring Bucky's scoff in his ear.

Ruth held out the rest of Steve's things, pausing when her hands found Steve's Art portfolio. "What grade are you in?"

Demurely, Steve scratched at his neck, starting to say "11th", when Bucky coughed sarcastically and he told the truth. "Tenth. Why?"

Smirking, Ruth explained. "Because it looks like we suffer one class together. You must either be extremely talented or extremely self-loathing. No one willingly puts themselves through the torture of Mr. Beck's Art class."

"Except you. And me, apparently," Steve shot back slyly, and Bucky didn't like where this seemed to be going. Tugging on the back of Steve's shirt, he interrupted rather rudely, the way he did when he was in a hurry and Steve was wasting his time with pleasantries of scolding Bucky on his lack of them.

"Steve, come on. We have an engagement with shoes and cash." He started pushing Steve back but for once the shorter boy wouldn't budge. "Steve?"

Ruth was eying Steve with an expression that would've been outlawed in the state of New York if Bucky had his way. Everything about her eyes said she liked what she saw and wanted more of it. It was the first time Steve had ever been noticed in front of Bucky since they'd been forced into parenting. Actually it was the first time Steve was noticed by the opposite sex in such a way period. It was also the first time Bucky was struck with an innate surge of possessiveness over Steve.

He decided he didn't like Ruth within the two seconds she'd ruined his exit. He decided that he hated Ruth within the two minutes it took her to eye Steve up and down and flirt shamelessly. He didn't know Steve was naïve and blind as a bat when it came to attraction, especially attraction aimed at him. Bucky was pissed.

The warning whistle rang but for once, Steve didn't move. Ruth glanced at the quickly filling classroom before turning back to Steve, a shy look on her face. "Can I call on you sometime? You know, if I ever need someone to give me an opinion on my work?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, knowing there was no way Steve wouldn't see right through that. "Of course." He ripped out a sheet of paper from his sketchpad, Steve scrawled his number across the top, followed by his name, in painstakingly neat handwriting that put Bucky right back in the body of that lonely twelve-year-old sitting at the back of the classroom.

Bucky didn't notice how closely he was pressed against Steve's back, hands on his sides until he was jabbed pretty roughly in the stomach by Steve's elbow as he reached across to hand Ruth the sheet. Ruth shot a bemused glance at Bucky, plastered against Steve's back before adding, "I'll definitely give you a call, Steve. See you around?"

Steve nodded adamantly, jostling Bucky's grip a bit. "Yeah, see you around." Bucky expected Steve to put his hands up to his cheeks, turn around, and jaw dropped in excitement before squealing with excitement. Or maybe he would drop back against the nearest wall and sigh with disbelief at his luck. Bucky would have preferred either of those to Steve's clammy hands gently pulling Bucky's hands from around his waist where they ha been slowly, steadfastly pulling Steve against his front and way from Ruth.

"Bucky, what's going on? If you're attempting the Heimlich Maneuver, you're doing it completely wrong, your hands are way too low," he added, like nothing had changed, like he hadn't practically dry-humped that smug bitch right in front of him. Bucky shoved past him, ignoring the flush warmth against his side, towards the front of the school, his ears listening to the sounds of Steve hurrying after him.

Steve met Ruth Raslo on a Wednesday after Mr. Deon's Maths class on the same day Bucky met the only person to steal Steve's attention away from him. And Bucky didn't like him one bit.

At fourteen, Bucky supposed it was normal to dream about his best friend. At fifteen, he figured it was even normal to have wet dreams at sleepovers with his best friend…and oh so fuckin' unfortunate. At sixteen, he noticed it wasn't that normal to have wet dreams at sleepovers with his best friend about his best friend. But when had Bucky ever been normal?

He told himself it wasn't really about Steve, that he was interpreting it wrong. It wasn't that he really liked boys…that much. He liked girls. Loved them in fact. He tried to stop, always managing to either picture whatever girl looked at him that week or just resist the urge to jack off period. It only got worse; he'd lost any sense of control over his lower half. He tried to convince himself it was because Steve resembled so much a dame. His skin was creamy and smooth and white as winter and his hair always soft and smelled like soap. The frailty of his unchanging body and the slight curve of his waist when it reached his bony hips. His long lashes that he looked up from at him with his baby-blue eyes. His red lips when he licks it to start speaking, once swollen and groaning Bucky's name….

Once, Steve set him off without realizing it. They were fifteen and sixteen and Steve slept over at Bucky's house when Jack had to work several more hours at the factory than he usually did and decided to make brownies with the last remaining supply of chocolate Mrs. Rogers bought for Bucky as a present. Bucky was ambling around the ridiculously small kitchen searching for the ingredients. Steve yelled over his shoulder from where he was reading his ma's recipe.

"You know, I can read just as good as you can. I could be reading the recipe and you could be running around the kitchen like I am," he barked, standing on the tips of his toes to reach the months old flour in the top cabinet. He held back a sneeze from the dust that fell.

"Yeah, if you call that running. I'd hate to see what you'd do if there was a real emergency," Steve shot back, sending the familiar sting of pride through Bucky's body. It'd taken a while but Steve was finally getting used to the fact that he was allowed to be rude and sarcastic to a friend. Meanwhile, Bucky was still learning that he was allowed to get attached to someone again, that they wouldn't disappear the second he'd really started to care. "Will you just get over here so I can start?"

"Just get over here," he mimicked, but he marched over obediently with the flour and watched as Steve poured the right amount into Mrs. Rogers' measuring cup. He handed it absently to Bucky and within seconds, Bucky sneezed, spraying flour everywhere, all over Steve's blue button-down.

Steve paused, eyes clenched, flour whitening his long eyelashes and Bucky started laughing. He hadn't gotten off completely clean, flour lining the bottom of his pant legs and sleep shirt. "Sorry," he stated, sarcasm bleeding through. Steve opened his eyes, a wicked tint to them and a smirk on his face.

Their flour fight was inevitable and the worst kind of messy. They raced and fought their way to the bathroom and Steve forced him in the standing shower and turned the faucet on. He was too slow to pull the curtain before his powdered covered shirt yanked him in. Steve glared at him through wet eyelashes and he was drenched in cold water in minutes. They slipped and slid for a minute embellished by echoing laughter.

"Bucky! You're a jerk!" he said, trying to escape but Bucky trapped him in a half-assed embrace that allowed Steve enough freedom to slither around the enclosed space, wet fabric adding weight. The dam hair plastering Bucky's hair to his head made it a little hard to make out when he ended and Steve began. But then again, it had always been that way.

"But you love me," Bucky retorted, pulling Steve harder against him trying to get him wetter still. Steve gave a low growl from the pit of his stomach and threw his weight into Bucky.

They slammed pretty hard into the tiled wall behind Bucky's back but the small knot on the back of his head did nothing to stop Bucky from involuntarily thrusting into the sweet friction of Steve's hips against his. Bucky had clenched his eyes shut, trying to stifle a ragged moan. But Steve wasn't done; he pushed again trying to break Bucky's grasp and only achieving in reacquainting Bucky with the fact that Steve was here, hot and drenched against his body. Bucky was hyperaware of the curves of Steve's waist under his hands and the slight arch in his back and the length of his smooth, unmarked neck as he struggled against Bucky. And then Steve tried again, Bucky barely managed to shove him back in time before he slammed his head into the wall and came with a strangled groan, lip caught in his teeth painfully.

And then Bucky had thanked God for Steve's naiveté. "Bucky are you okay? I didn't know I pushed that hard. I'm sorry." The genuine concern in his eyes forced a laugh out of Bucky's mouth.

"I'm okay, Stevie," he panted. He wasn't really, he was wet and sticky, and he'd cracked his head pretty hard. He knew if he went to sleep that night so close to Steve's warm body, he'd lose it all over again. Somehow he convinced Steve to let him take the first shower so Steve could dry off and avoid getting another cold and he spent the time jerking off until the cold water turned freezing and he'd come about three more times.

So after that embarrassment, Bucky rationalized that there was no harm in giving in at home in his makeshift bed on the couch. When Steve wasn't there.

Steve caught a cold the next morning anyway. Bucky blamed himself.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky had been right about Ruth Raslo, despite Steve's previous misconceptions. That didn't stop the extreme awkwardness of the realization weeks later, stretched out on his stomach in Steve's bedroom recounting his situation.

"She just asked if I wanted to go to a picture show with her, I said 'yes'. How is that a date?" Steve argued, shoving a couple caramel cubes in his mouth.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve's innocence and the stupid jealousy clawing at the back of his throat. He claimed the credit as the only person, aside from Mrs. Rogers to see Steve's hidden worth and he didn't like the idea of his title being disputed. Who did Ruth Raslo think she was?

"Steve, it's a date because she gave you her address and gave you a time. At which you will arrive at her door, and somehow she'll end up throwing you over her shoulder like a Russian Cave Woman and take you to the janitor's closet at the theatre to sully your lily-white virginity to the sultry sounds of "In the Mood". He rolled over and reached for the Webster's dictionary under Steve's bed. He cracked it at the middle and mock read, "See, date. Says so here. With a Commie too, ya little punk. You sure know how to pick 'em." Steve and Bucky had gone a couple double dates with girls that clearly liked Bucky and Steve became the fourth wheel. Ruth had started attending their school a year before Steve and Bucky did and she had soon become a target for her thick Russian accent. But the second people understood the intensity of her wealth, they began to leave her alone. There had even been a rumor that the reason Ruth immigrated to America in the first place was because she ruthlessly murdered a rival gang in Russia and was part of the Witness Protection.

Steve threw a candy in Bucky's direction and gave a fake sound of discontent when he caught it in his mouth. "Okay, so what do I do?" he asked after a beat.

"Well, it's a free movie with a possibility of getting off with someone other than Righty; I say go for it, Stevie," Bucky said matter-of-factly, looking anywhere but at the unblemished trust in Steve's eyes.

"I'm not whipped," Bucky heard Steve mutter under his breath.

He couldn't ignore the pure light in Steve's eyes when he spoke to Ruth after Art about the new artsy-fartsy picture Bucky had heard Steve rave about for the past month. He'd planned to complain and shut Steve down a couple of times before eventually giving in and surprising him with two tickets a few weeks later. But Ruth had beaten him to the punch and the expression of non-manipulated joy on Steve's face belonged to Ruth now. And whose fault was that?

He knew what it would take, what he could say to get Steve to go down the hallway and call Ruth right now, faking a sore throat and a couple of coughs. He knew just what to say to make Steve never go near Ruth again, even just to borrow a pencil or a sheet of paper. And Steve would be none the wise, because somewhere along their lopsided, uneven friendship, Steve had grown to trust Bucky more than he trusted himself. Bucky maintained that he hadn't begun to abuse that until 10th grade. That was the year his mother stayed away for six months straight and Bucky realized he'd have to stop needing her quite so much. That was the year Mrs. Rogers had slowly begun answering her door with disapproval instead of warm, welcoming smiles. After all, that was the year Bucky got Steve drunk for the first time and helped him staged all the way home before he hurled at the front door.

Bucky had learned that year that nothing was infallible.

He knew just what to say to shut Steve back into his little orbit for a little longer, but he wouldn't. He'd let Steve take a chance on his own. "Go for it, pal. Let me know how it goes." And as Bucky got up to go home, Bucky added for clarity, "The movie, not the fucking."

And he could pretend he was proud when Steve flipped him the bird instead of nostalgic for times when a gesture like that from Bucky earned him a scold and the silent treatment for the next five minutes.

That first night cracked the protective shell of Bucky's denial. He spent the night fucking his fist until he got blisters and fell asleep, the taste of Coke and Steve's name tattooed on his tongue like a fresh brand just beginning to ache.

Ruth was everything Steve never thought he could have. She was tall, lovely, _beautifully_ sophisticated, and her eyes were the most terrifying shade of green that Steve had ever seen. She wore a soft black dress and kitten heels and lipstick as red as the setting sun and never appeared frazzled or stressed, despite her heavy workload in preparation for college. She was just as smart, if not smarter than Steve. Her hands, Steve's favorite part of her, were long fingers, warm, and inviting to touch. Earlier that morning while he had been alone in his bed contemplating whether or not to tell Bucky, Steve had established just what made Ruth so great. She was different from Bucky in just about every way.

When Steve told her one of those weird, far from useful factoids he'd learned from the pile of books he regularly borrowed from the library, Ruth didn't call him a dork for knowing them. If Steve asked her embarrassedly for help carrying all of the many books he needed to return, Ruth didn't refuse, scoff, and laugh from the sidelines. And when Steve told her that he liked her, she just smiled and said, "I like you too, Steve." She didn't shove him playfully into a wall and tell him, "Of course you do, I'm adorable," like Bucky did.

After they'd met, Steve had taken to hanging out with Ruth before and after school when Bucky wasn't on his tail planning aloud all of the great money-making schemes he'd come up with at the top of his head. It felt dangerous keeping a secret from Bucky; like he never had before. Sometimes he even felt guilty for it. But when he would remember that it wasn't as if he was sneaking off in the middle of the night to set fireworks off in the abandoned field behind their high school with Ruth. Or planting ladders behind Steve's apartment or their expensive metal lunchboxes with house keys in the dirt behind Bucky's apartment building in case of an emergency with Ruth. And he certainly didn't spend weekends doing nothing other than sitting around tracking freckles on his shoulder in his underwear with Ruth. Just the thought gave an odd chill down Steve's spine, along with a flush of heat.

That night, Steve had opened the door and greeted Ruth with a nervous smile. Having been unsure of what to wear, he'd picked out the most casual outfit he owned: a pair of slacks Bucky had bought him with money he earned after his paper-route job a few summers ago, an ironed collared shirt, and pristine tennis shoes.

The first sign what Bucky might've been right about this being a date came when instead of shoving Steve out of the house and down the gravelly road like Bucky would've done, Ruth lightly nudged her hand into his and walked beside him all the way to the theatre. The second sign came halfway through the French picture when Ruth leaned across the seat all the way in the back, hands placed gently on Steve's neck as their lips met at a pace so slow it made Steve tense with anticipation. The tiny, film star was right in the middle of a heartfelt monologue but Steve didn't hear a thing.

It had been a week since Bucky and Steve's conversation and Steve was still acting weird. Whenever Bucky brought it up, he'd clam up and change the subject and if they passed Ruth in the hallway, Steve would tense and lower his gaze to the tiled floor. It was nerve-wracking to say the least and if Bucky didn't get answers soon, he was going to do something drastic.

He pestered Steve whenever they were alone, throwing questions at him like bullets until Steve snapped or left his own bedroom. Bucky knew Steve didn't have many friends outside Bucky so having the possibility that Ruth could easily weld himself into Steve's life had his skin crawling. "Come on, you gotta give me something. Did Ruthless Raslo make a move; did you puke from the nerves? Did you pussy out at the last minute and not go at all?" When that earned nothing, he pushed further. "Did your ma catch you? 'Cause that can make you go soft real fast."

Steve bit the inside of his cheek and decided it was safe to say, "Nothing happened. I'm fine."

This only served the purpose of causing Bucky to thoroughly assure himself that something _had_ indeed happened and Steve was not fine. After all, he'd been saying he was "fine" over the years whenever he was in fact _not_ fine. This onslaught caused Bucky to start the sixth fight of their 11th grade, with a 12th grader, causing instant fame for all involved for at least a while.

To his credit, it was not a "knock out drag out" with one of the only kids brave enough to admit herself as an uncaring witness to the population of the high school and it certainly wasn't because Ruth was girl. He'd just watched the awkward exchange between Steve and Ruth one too many times. He'd cornered Ruth in the hall after fourth class and a badly timed shove threw Bucky into Ruth, throwing Ruth into a class door causing aloud slam and grabbing the attention of everyone around.

Steve, a few feet away looked stricken, embarrassed and…when Bucky looked closer, fearful. Bucky leaned in as close as possible so he could speak without the threat of being overheard above the chatter of the hallway. "What did you do to Steve?"

Ruth tilted her chin up in defiance, serving only to make Bucky yank it down. "Ow, shit, you little fucker. What's got your panties in a twist, doll?" She tried to jerk her head to the side before Bucky gripped her chin roughly and pulled it forward.

Bucky stared deep into the green eyes Steve had probably fallen for because he was a sucker for a pair of nice eyes. Every girl Steve had ever said he'd liked had "nice eyes". She'd never been able to see what Bucky saw in his best friend's eyes, the honestly, the loyalty, and the innocence that he hadn't properly protected. And that was his fault, but he could right some of that now.

"Ow, let me go!"

"What the _fuck_ did you do?" Bucky growled, low and deep from the pit of his stomach. A lull fell over the crowd and he knew Steve would be angry with him for at least a week now. He also knew for sure that he'd be ragged on for messing with a girl in broad daylight.

Some part of him was too pissed off to care. He already felt like he knew; he knew what the bitch had done. She'd probably seduced Steve to the picture show, listened to him talk excitedly until the film started, then let him ramble on and on about how awesome or how contrived it was afterwards. Then she'd taken Steve into the make-out closet that once was properly used as a janitor's closet and she'd probably tried to make a move. And when Steve had stopped her after a few minutes of giving in, she'd probably called him a baby or a prude or even laughed at his face, calling it all a joke, and walked off knowing Steve would feel guilty and pathetic. Then, like the wretched little cunt she was, she probably went home and giggled about it with her friends.

Ruth matched his glare with one of her won, sneering, "I didn't do a thing. We went out, we had a nice time. We walked to the docks and we kissed. Things got a little heated and I stuck my hands down his pants." Her voice stuttered and stopped. Confused, Bucky leaned back to realize his forearm was steadily crushing Ruth's windpipe. He reluctantly eased up a bit and watched as Ruth coughed a bit before continuing. "He seemed pretty into it until he said he had to go. He mumbled something about 'Bucky being right' and then said he wanted to go home."

Bucky took a step back; again realizing his knee had been locked on Ruth's groin, now probably appearing to the crowd behind them like he was about to fuck her against the door. He shook his head before seeking Steve. He turned a few corners before entering the boys' bathroom. The last stall from the wall, the one they'd spent an hour one skipped physical education class covering in their favorite things for the hell for it. Bucky knew before he pushed that the door was unlatched. Steve was sitting on top of the seat, head in his hands.

He entered and leaned against the right wall. "You know, if you keep this up, you may develop a nasty problem with voyeurs. I can't be your hero forever, Stevie." Steve didn't look up. "Talk to me."

Steve stood and leaned against the opposite wall, his head lowered. "I don't want to."

Bucky tilted his head, trying to catch Steve's eye line. "Come on, please? For me?"

Steve shook his head shoving Bucky back into the wall. He slammed rather roughly into the concrete, blaming Steve's mood for the force but knowing he'd meat it to hurt. After a beat, a muttered, "Sorry."

And Bucky laughed because even now, after so many years, Steve would never be anything other than polite. Which is why Ruth's story had rung true. He hadn't meant to, but he'd ruined Steve's first sexual experience. Fuck it, he'd meant to, he'd even wanted to. And fuck it, whether it was with one of the nicest looking dames around. Steve had no business being on the docks when he should've been at Bucky's apartment listening to boring news on the radio in their shorts.

That's what he should've been doing but Bucky didn't want to say it out loud. Not when Steve was feeling…feeling what exactly? Ashamed, angry, hurt, all of the above?

"Steve, talk to me. What's wrong?" Bucky tried again, the pure confusion in his voice lifted Steve's head for the first time since he'd locked them in the stall together. And when he did, Bucky instantly wished he hadn't.

Those eyes, the ones that attracted Bucky to Steve in the first place were now dark and unrecognizable. Where the core had once held such light, such bright and unwavering faith in security, it was now dim and fading fast. The screen of innocence and blissful unawareness had broken and Bucky's breath caught with regret. Steve was truly hurt for the first time that Bucky had ever seen, and he'd put that look on Steve's face. He'd put that hurt in Steve's life. His knees felt weak as he was overcome with the unshakeable need to be away, this was suffocating.

"You make jokes out of everything –out of _everything_ I do," Steve spat.

"Steve," he forced out before Steve gratefully lowered his head again.

"I liked it, Bucky. A lot. It was different. It felt like her hands, Ruth's hands, were everywhere. I wanted it so much it actually _hurt_. " He paused, hands tight around his knees. "But then that, that _song_ came on the radio and it started to feel wrong; like you were _right there_, right there _watching_ and that made it wrong." A sniffing sound and Steve wiped stubbornly at his eyes. Bucky sank to the floor, ignoring Steve's know-it-all voice in the back of his head telling him about all the germs on the bathroom floors. Steve sniffed a few more times, trying to hide his obvious tears until they were becoming too fast for even Bucky to pretend not to see. For Bucky, to be able to ignore the beautifully horrid fact that some part of his best friend was breaking.

He stood to unsteady feet, unsure of what to do. He'd apologize but it just wouldn't be enough. He didn't know what to do. He eventually stumbled forward, reaching out blindly for Steve as the stall door was unlatched and Bucky was left alone.

A week later after "that Barnes kid fucked Ruthless Raslo", Bucky was sneaking into Steve's window. They had a system, if Bucky wanted to come over because Jack had drank too hard, his folks were fighting, or he just didn't want to be alone, he'd walk over, climb the fire escape and knock on Steve's window. Bucky ignored it completely, choosing to instead just open the window and climb right in.

Throwing his jacket and shoes off randomly on the floor, Bucky undressed bit by bit before climbing into Steve's bed. Steve woke up just as Bucky was falling asleep. Too tired and too push him away entirely, Steve just groaned in annoyance, making Bucky's stomach flutter, from guilt he was so sure. "Go 'way. Still mad."

Bucky tried in vain to wrap his arms around Steve's sluggish form. "Don't care. You're my best friend and I'm going to fix this. Whatever it takes." He buried his face in the crook of Steve's neck stubbornly. "I'll even fix things with Ruth if I have to."

Steve tried to pull away again, kicking Bucky meagerly, but eventually snuggled his cold body towards Bucky's furnace-like one. "Get offa me. Tell my ma," he threatened, a smile tugging at his lips when Bucky buried a laugh into the blanket. It was too familiar, too like them to be annoying each other in the dead of night.

"Big, fat baby, Stevie. Go ahead, tell your ma and I'll tell her who broke her measuring cup," he teased, pleased when Steve shuffled closer to him and relaxed into his grip. His heart unclenched as the tension in Steve's muscles gave way.

"Go 'head. Wasn't my fault anyway. You made me." Steve rolled over into Bucky and laid his head back into his pillows, relishing in the familiar smell of the soap and that stupidly expensive aftershave Bucky had stolen from Jack's cabinet. He was just falling into a calm slumber when his brain cataloged what made the smell so comforting. Bucky smelled like home; his scent made up a part of his apartment, the scent of cigarette smoke, and a part of Bucky, _was_ home and the revelation overwhelmed his senses and a fraction of the security that held Steve afloat returned.

Bucky stroked the side of Steve's swan-like neck, listening to the sounds of Steve's breath slowing into sleep. This was getting a bit ridiculous. He'd come over under the guise of fixing the rift between them when in actuality, he'd been fed up with trying and failing to fall asleep on his own for the past week. With Jack actually volunteering overtime at the factory, rather than be at home with his son and his mother spending time with him whenever Jack was sure to be working, he felt more alone than ever. He hadn't realized how much his refuge depended on Steve. Not just the availability of the Rogers household but Steve, period.

He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that as long as he had Steve's faith, Steve's trust, someone to fight for…he could never be truly alone.

Steve was babbling on about something Bucky had no interest in, but he was listening anyway because when Steve spoke, he listened. And he was tracking shapes sweetly on Bucky's forearm, light enough not to hurt but hard enough to feel. And he was remembering what his ma told him about the truth in the little details in the little moments of his life. And he remembered because she'd felt so far away like it hurt to touch him. The memory was a little fuzzy around the edges because he could've sworn he hadn't done anything wrong. It had been a few days after she'd come home from the hospital without Jesse and he'd kept reaching up for the hug but she cried every time he did.

"So, that's why Ursa Minor is my favorite constellation," Steve finished in a rush of air, thoughtful smile on his face. He rolled to his side and upon seeing the lost look hollowed in Bucky's eyes. "Bucky? You okay?"

Rolling his head from side to side against the coarse material of his jacket, Bucky opened and closed his mouth a few times before responding. "I want to tell you about my brother but I don't know how." Every time he swallowed, his mouth tasted salty and dry. He wanted to tell Steve that he hadn't done anything wrong even though he wasn't sure because he didn't want Steve to hate him.

Steve tried to make light of it. "That's easy. Just open your mouth and make sounds." But Bucky didn't crack a sliver of a grin. Instead, he sat up and stared at the darkening sky pictured in his open window. And he remembered the smell of his mother's shampoo, the feel of her soft skin against his own when she taught him to write straight lines in his new schoolbook. And the sound of her voice in his tiny ears when she sang to him while she cooked and he was happy until.

Until he thought of the feel of Jesse's palms on the outside of his pajamas, replacing the buttons in the proper holes. Until he remembered the sounds of rushing feet and creaking floorboards outside his parents bedroom sanctuary. Until he imagined the sound of his mother's voice frantic and broken interspersed with squealing tires and suffocating feeling of his sister Rebecca's arms holding his body tightly. Until he could see Jack's mourning and the box of Jesse's things being put away in a closet. Until he felt Jack's hand tight around his six-year-old wrist after he'd spilled Jack's stuff out all over the hallway. Until Jack lost his job as a policeman and the Barnes family had to move to a small, cheaper apartment with only one bedroom the size of a closet. Until his only sister, who he loved with all his heart left without looking back. Until he recalled when he'd been old enough to know what he'd lost during Family Day of Grammar School.

He had all these fragmented, disjointed memories and none of them were enough. He couldn't remember the smell of baby powder on his skin when he'd hugged Jesse with his tiny arms. He couldn't recall his mother's musical voice in his ear when he'd still been her "Little Man". He couldn't remember those things and that made them the most important.

He was jerked out of reverie when a hand touched his shoulder. Flinching away, he shivered, eyes still watching the changing shades of nightfall. When he spoke, he was aware of how small his voice was and thankful Steve could always understand him. "Can we not talk for a while?"

So they sat quietly through dinner and through most of the night until Bucky shook Steve awake at two in the morning. He took a deep breath and began. "Today, Jesse would've turned twenty-five. He used to come into my room at night, usually when it stormed. He'd crawl into my bed…"


End file.
